But this thought tantalizes me: “What would be the use then — since she would not know about it?”
Mercenary! The reward for good must be found in the good itself; we must not expect it to come from men.
Or take the reward of meriting her esteem — of feeling that when I approach her, I am worthy (a little more worthy at least). Oh, without my saying a word, she would read it in my eyes, would look past my eyes into my soul.…
“Never mind,” she would say. “I know without being told.”
Here again, her esteem would be involved. To be sure, I would have advanced, but not far enough. What else?
I would have to be vilified by her until my rebellious pride crumbles; to accept the unjust accusation without trying to defend myself in order that she might think me worse than I am. That would be struggling, heart-break, triumph!
But suppose that as a result she loved me less?
Well, now! that is the acid test. Virtue consists in feeling that I am above her esteem, that I am more worthy than she thinks. That she would love me less matters not, for I would love her all the more; this would be my reward. I would not be deluded, for I would know that my actions were motivated by the need for self-esteem, by pride; still, I would accept the inevitable, loyally, simply, without pretending to wage gratuitous moral battles with myself.
Yes, that is how things stand. Virtue consists in suffering the loss of her esteem. I must lose her esteem — but how? A lie through which I discredit myself? No, the act itself must be thoroughly pure. The best way is for me to let things drift along, simply, ordinarily; this will cause me to suffer the most, for I am afraid of being encouraged by the test itself, by some slight theatrical element which I might introduce into it.
Then, simply, ordinarily, I shall let myself be discredited by things, by all those things that surround me, by the infinite number of petty, accidental accusations that will cause my aggravated pride to bristle; but I shall restrain it and in the evening, very calm and very lonely, I shall pray and shall slowly kill my mutilated ego.
And I shall love you still more, bless you still more, my sister, because I shall whisper to myself (but not to you) that it is to you that I must become better.
I must deserve you by leaving you — (oh! artless).
“The more abundantly I love you, the less I am loved.” (II Cor. 12:15).50
“For me alone! For me alone!
“They will not understand … but what does it matter?
“I shall always recognize you, dear tears of love, under the mystery (to others) of these sobs, these pleas, these laments.…
“Tears? Why tears?”
“I am happy, however … she loves me … but my soul trembles when night falls.
“In the street they laughed in passing. I did not know who was singing, but the voice was too loud. Then evening came and stillness reigned. The water reflected the pink sky, except under dark bridges.
“And I did not know — I walked like a fool. My head was filled with songs.
“Then evening came and stillness reigned … shadows lengthened — and pale night appeared in the pale sky … great encompassing night.
“Tears? Why tears. Tears of love, of ecstasy!
“I weep because the night is beautiful and hope floods my soul.”
(Midnight, Antibes, Nov. 5)
“It is night. I can not sleep. What are you doing, Emmanuèle? I know that you lie awake. On the balcony the light from your room silhouettes the flowers embroidered on your curtains. What are you doing? It is late. The others are asleep.
“And what was wrong with you this evening? You seemed pensive — pensive over what, my sister? Oh, if only I dared read your soul!.. Emmanuèle, could it be true?… But I am afraid to find out — I wait for you still.”
Oh! I beseech you, daughters of Jerusalem,
Do not awaken, do not awaken my love—
Until she wills it.
* * *
I sat down at the piano. I had not dared to play for you again since the other evening … fearing the worst, doubting. I played at random Schumann’s Novelettes. You were on the balcony. It was still warm in spite of advancing night. I played at random — and then — you came to listen to me. I had not seen you approach but suddenly the delicate rustling of your dress made me aware of your presence. I trembled so from surprise and confusion that I could no longer play.
“Look!” I said, “You upset me so much when you come up like this … I am trembling.”
“Why, André? Why?” you asked with a smile.
You did not go away. You remained nearby — and you watched me. I felt your look without seeing it.
Turn your eyes away from me, for they disturb me.
You remained so pensive. Pensive over what, Emmanuèle?
What are you doing now that it is so late? The hour for sleep has come.
Then — a little later on — we were all sitting around the lamp. You had risen to look for a book and then, before you sat down again, you came near me and I felt your delicate hand gently caress my forehead.
I looked at you; bending over me, tenderly, you were smiling, but sadly, pensively.… Pensive over what, Emmanuèle?
What are you doing now, so late at night?
Perhaps your soul is also waiting and you are praying.
(November 6)
“For the first time I saw your look in a dream.
“You were smiling, but mockingly. I put my hand over my eyes to avoid seeing your look, but I could still see it through my hand.”
“You told me at the kiss of dawn: ‘I prayed for both of us last night, André.’
“‘Do you think that I did not know, little sister?’ I replied.
“Then you looked disturbed; you wanted to speak but fell silent. What did you wish to say?”
(November 26)
They are watching us, I know. Especially my mother. She dares not believe; she does not know — and is afraid to find out. She is especially disconcerted by the fact that for the past several days, for reasons incomprehensible to her, I have avoided you. But yesterday when you came up to the piano, I could not help noticing her uneasiness.
Then I had a dream last night, a strange, sweet dream. We were sitting by the lamp in the evening — talking, reading as on other evenings — but I sensed on all sides their mute spying on our movements, as one senses things intuitively in dreams.
Fearfully I observed my actions. Frightened by the notion that you might approach me, I had sat down far away from you.
You, absent-minded, apparently unaware of their looks, came up to me: I was unable to run away, and your hand sought mine as it tried in vain to escape and slowly, tenderly, caressed it.
Around us their faces became animated, their heads nodded, their smiles appeared.
“Aha!” they said, “we knew it all along, all along!”
Their derisive laughter seemed forced. You kept your eyes lowered and continued obstinately to caress my hand, which I tried in vain to withhold.
And that was so strangely sweet that I awoke, as from a nightmare.51
Here end the written pages.
My mother was sick. We stood by her bedside and comforted her. I cooled her brow and you gave her water. Both of us were engrossed in a common prayer; all else was forgotten. Our souls, void of everything except pity, void of desire other than that of serving, united in the face of approaching death, not in profane joy, not even startled by the ecstatic embrace long anticipated and finally realized — and almost without seeing each other because of the dazzling light of virtue which we contemplated and toward which our souls aspired.